


But I Just Can't Get No Relief

by LollyHolly99



Series: Somebody To Love [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Porn, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Escapism, Multi, One Night Stands, Pining, and oH THE INEFFECTIVE ESCAPISM, didn't mean for that all the way through but there ya go, i say this every time but god I don't ever know what to tag, oh the pining, on Crowley's part that is, the smut's just here to fuel ya boi's sadness really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollyHolly99/pseuds/LollyHolly99
Summary: He escalates it, after a while. Starts getting off with partners when his own hand or toys aren't enough to quell the need in him. Sure, the one night stands are only substitutes for the angel, and he gets a vague flash of a feeling of disloyalty (To whom, exactly? It's not like they have anything more than a friendship going on.) when he invites them to bed, but, hey, it's better than nothing.-A look into a number of occasions where Crowley's slept with humans to calm his own longing.





	But I Just Can't Get No Relief

**Author's Note:**

> look. perhaps this is very stupid. I wouldn't know. I don't have taste. but lately I've been v into the concept of 'X is madly in love w/ Y but can't do shit abt it so X bangs folks that share attributes w/ Y to try and get over it' and I couldn't not make this shit happen. no-one was around to stop me so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
also lil heads up here - when I started writing this I was like "haha what if I just didn't refer to Aziraphale by name" and then I committed myself to it and that may or may not have been a mistake. the whole fic might even have been a mistake. who knows.  
anyways hope y'all enjoy! <3

Crowley wants. He wants, and he wants badly.

Wants one, specific, ethereal, heavenly being.

The issue with that... is that he can't have.

Of course, not that his aim is to possess. It's more of a 'want'ing to express, to feel, openly, more openly than he could, make it all clear as day.

A wanting to _love_.

He does love, though. It's not something he can help, even while existing at the supposed exact opposite end of a spectrum of 'good' and 'evil' to the very object of his affections.

But he knows all too well it's a love he can't let escape. A love **he** wouldn't let him let escape, either, for their mutual fear of those (figuratively) above the two of them in their respective departments.

That's perfectly okay - a fact he resigns himself to. He understands their places in the grand scheme of things. He understands the consequences. He undertstands the hesitation from his companion of thousands of years, even with all that time behind them.

Still, he can't help but want.

He can distract himself from his own longing well enough, he supposes. After all, he has **his** friendship, doesn't he? He has the meals they share together, the arrangement - hell, he's had the privilege of conversation right from the get-go. That _should_ be enough - to push further would just be greedy.

And greed is indeed a sin, and sins are his specialty, being a demon and all... but it wouldn't be at all fair to **him**.

He distracts himself. Spends a not-insignificant amount of time around the angel, which keeps his mind on said angel, yes, but it's when **he's** not around that he needs the most distraction, really. So he immerses himself in work (or, at least, the work that Hell thinks he's doing), and alcohol, and his plants, and whatever humans are up to these days; wars and theatre of some sort were generally what they were up to, the latter being undoubtedly the preferable one.

There are some parts of his wanting that he can't seem to distract himself from quite as simply, though. It's just what he finds comes along with a corporeal, humanoid form.

The human libido - what a curse, when his mind becomes clouded with even more sinful thoughts than the ones that should come along with his hellish nature.

He's a patient demon. He can, and has, of course, waited thousands of years for the opportunity to express how he feels, and is ready to continue doing so. But somehow, for matters on a smaller scale, patience evades him. Smaller matters being the twinges of arousal from when he pictures a little too vividly the life they could share in the too-unlikely aftermath of some grand gesture of disobedience to their respective sides.

He indulges himself often, giving in to his wetness or hardness (whatever he might have on a given day) and the fantasies and the ache, and touching himself in his lonely flat, calling out **his** name desperately with his release. It just about satisfies his wanting, most of the time - apart from when he ends up laying in the aftermath in a bed that feels too empty, wishing for more.

He escalates it, after a while. Starts getting off with partners when his own hand or toys aren't enough to quell the need in him. Sure, the one night stands are only substitutes for the angel, and he gets a vague flash of a feeling of disloyalty (To whom, exactly? It's not like they have anything more than a friendship going on.) when he invites them to bed, but, hey, it's better than nothing.

* * *

One of them, he can faintly recall, was at one particular Halloween party out of the many he's invited himself to in recent-ish years (He can't just _not_ celebrate the spookiest night of the year, now, can he?). The place was packed with half-drunk partygoers - the night was still young - some in more elaborate costumes, getting into the spirit of things, some in casual dress, just there as an excuse to get some drinks in them.

Off to the side was a woman, not necessarily bored or upset, but looking just a tad disinterested in it all. Dragged there by a friend, as Crowley would later find out. She was in the costumed half of the party - clad in a white, figure-hugging dress, with white high heels, a (Cardboard? Plastic, maybe?) halo on a headband, and wings held on by half-hidden elastic straps, thick and fluffy and... reminiscent.

Crowley's memory of that night gets a little hazy from that point onwards. One minute she's making her way towards him, making conversation about the slightly dull people in attendance and asking where he gets 'those funky yellow eye contacts' from, then she's assuring him she's sober (she was), then they're at his place, and she's face down on his mattress, eager and moaning into the sheets.

He's bent over her, his own face pressed into the fake wings she's still wearing, the only thing she's wearing - his request.

_Soft_, he thinks to himself with a sigh as he thrusts. _Soft, and pretty, and..._

...Not as soft as **his**, though. And far too small. And the wrong colour by a few shades - he's just now noticing that they're more off-white than they'd seemed at the party. And they're fake, so very fake, there's nothing alive or truly ethereal in the costume.

**His** wings are pristine and groomed, big and gorgeous and real. Crowley thinks back to Eden, when the two of them met, when he'd been shielded from the oncoming rain by those wings. He thinks about the gentleness of them, both in their form and in the manner **he'd** spread them out over him with.

If he tries hard enough, he can almost picture the faux feathery accessories in front of him growing, and then they're big enough to wrap around him like a cocoon if he should ask, and they're covered in _real_ feathers because he's with a _real_ angel, a _specific_ one, not an imitation who picked up their facade as one from their closest costume shop at the last minute.

He could brush a hand over and through them, dance his fingers around the area where they connect to the angel in question's back, and the figure below him would shiver and groan at the touch. He's got first-hand experience with that particular piece of anatomy. He knows just where the sensitive parts are. Or... perhaps that was just A Crowley Thing, and it'd be a different story with **him**.

In any case, Hannah doesn't have that sensitivity, so his absentminded stroking of the false wings wouldn't do anything to help get her off. They almost come together - her first, then him when her ecstatic cry becomes too much for his fantasy to not be shattered in the moment.

She ends up falling asleep in his bed and cuddling up to him, still wearing those wings. Crowley, however, takes a while longer to get the sleep he doesn't technically need. He thinks about **his** wings.

* * *

Thomas was another. He'll admit right up front, it was that head of hair that drew him in. Short, flocculent, and pale white. He can't quite recall whether the colour was dyed or had come about by natural causes. In any case, it wasn't of any concern to him exactly why it was that way.

The thought at the forefront of his mind was that it reminded him of a certain someone.

Thomas was an actor, if memory served Crowley well. And he preferred 'Thomas' to 'Tom', even if the latter was simpler. Not that either of them ended up saying it a whole lot as the night went on. Nothing else about him really registered in the demon's mind beyond that. He was a fairly plain fellow, all things considered.

It's not like Crowley doesn't care, or that he actively dislikes or tries to forget people like Thomas (although 'caring' is almost the opposite of the job description for him). It's just that 6,000-odd years worth of humans coming and going doesn't exactly allow all of them to stick out in his head, or stick out well. Even if they're a member of the group of folks he'd ended up shagging on less than stellar evenings. The ones that stick out really well are more often than not the ones that the whole world remembers, too, like that Shakespeare bloke. Who knew he'd blow up like he did?

Thomas was an actor. Or... perhaps Crowley had just met him in or around a theatre. Regardless, they didn't stay at said theatre for long after Crowley had gotten over the effect his hair had on him (or really, gotten over it just enough to think clearly, but not quite enough to not need to follow through on the thoughts in his head). Soon enough, they were back at Crowley's flat.

...Oh, there was one more thing he remembered about Thomas: he was _very_ keen on the idea of fucking Crowley, even after only their first interaction. So, the events of the evening led to Thomas sat upright against the headboard of Crowley's bed, with the demon riding his cock and threading his fingers through those snowy locks, gripping tightly.

On one downward roll of Crowley's hips, it hits _just_ the right spot inside him, and he cries out in pleasure, falling forward and burying his face in Thomas' hair.

It's that last part specifically, when he's so close that the sight of his hair fills his vision, that feels reminiscent to him, just a bit - with some adjustments in positioning and the emotions in the air and the like - of a handful of wine-fuelled afternoons in the back room of the book shop, languidly leaning on **his** shoulder while they chat.

Except, when he breathes in, catching his breath, unlike those moments, there's no scent of cologne and sweetness and books older than most living people. Thomas' shampoo isn't going to linger in his mind for the rest of the day, doesn't capture him in the slightest, doesn't match the memories brought up by the sight of pale white hair like that.

He can ignore it. And he does, until it's suddenly his ears instead that are assaulted with something different to what he subconsciously expects.

"_Oh..._" Thomas sighs. "_Anthony..._"

Not the right accent. Not the right gentle timbre. Not the right name.

Crowley screws his eyes shut and plants his lips on Thomas' in some attempt to quiet him and calm the dissonance between reality and his fantasy. But even then, as the kiss deepens, he can't ignore the fact that there's no taste at all of sweet treats, of cakes and pastries just previously devoured - like he guesses there would be with **him**.

His senses cloud up with _wrong, wrong, wrong_, and while Thomas ends up satisfied at the end of the night, Crowley is far from it.

* * *

It's always one or two little things that earn Crowley's attraction on frustrated evenings.

Tonight, Ash and their thick thighs and their silly bow tie. It wasn't tartan, but it was ugly enough that it could've been.

Crowley finds out, over the time he spends talking with Ash at the bar or wherever it was (No, couldnt've been a bar, neither of them were pissed at all... oh, screw it, whatever.), that they're a bit less... restrained than his brain had tricked him into expecting at first when he'd seen them, but... really, the lack of restraint just allows the pair of them to get to the fun part quicker.

Ash does end up doing a little _um_-ing and _ah_-ing just before the pair of them get to it.

_"You're sure I'm not going to hurt you? There's a bit of a meme about it, people getting neck injuries and stuff, and I've never really, uh-"_

_"And you know what to signal just in case...? Yeah, just like that, and I'll get off. Well, y'know, 'get off' literally, like, off of you, of course-"_

_"And we can stop at any time, just wanna put that out there-"_

"Mate," Crowley interrupts at last with a faint smirk. "Are you gonna put me out of my misery and just sit on my face any time soon or what?"

Ash blushes and smiles back. "Right, yeah, sorry."

And then they do, and it's everything he needs in that moment. Plump thighs squeezing his head, not too gently, not too hard. A cute, wet hole to eat out. A round behind for his hands to grab at, as well as the rest of their soft lower half.

He sets to it quickly, working his magic with that tongue of his. Cool and weird tongue stuff just comes with the territory when you can also become a snake, and he'll be damned- blessed- he'll be _whatever_ed if he's not gonna put that little quirk to good use. (Hmm, he's not supposed to do anything good... Bad use? _Fun_ use.)

Crowley doesn't properly hear Ash when they sigh out "Ahh, _fuck_... Anthony..." as he pushes his tongue inside, not with those thighs pressing around his ears. He faintly knows they've made some kind of noise, but it's muffled and indecipherable as anything but a hum. And it's just what he'd hoped - one less risk of finding his way back to reality when he's in the thick of it.

He's demonically miracled away his taste buds and any olfactory stuff, too, so no potential disappointments in either of those senses. And his eyes... remain closed.

He's left with nothing more than the sensation of Ash's weight on and around him, their slow, small, gentle gyrations of their hips, and the squishy flesh he's grasping at. And at that point, it's simple, oh so very simple, to let himself believe it's **him** riding his tongue enthusiastically and probably moaning his name. And it's 'Crowley' that goes unheard by him, not 'Anthony', that's what **he** knows him as. The chubby figure above him, he pictures, is more than six millennia older than the one that's really there, and yet ageless, and eternally captivatingly beautiful, in every way, from tip to toe.

He can forget, in the moment, that he's not actually allowed to indulge his favourite angel (a title that, really, isn't a difficult one to earn, since the rest of them are twats, in his opinion) in this particular earthly pleasure - one that he can easily imagine said angel's reaction to, considering just how **he** responds to good food sometimes. If he just takes the faces and noises that result from a particularly tasty shortcake and multiplies them tenfold... _fuck_, what a sight that'd be to behold.

Crowley runs his hands over their ass and thighs and squeezes handfuls of everything he can reach, like he's physically holding onto the fantasy, just in case it'll escape him if he doesn't. And that seems to be working, for some while.

And then Ash pauses, giving his arm a tap.

And it all comes crashing down as they shift backwards a little, and slip through his grip.

"Ah, hey," they say, breathless, in a voice that's immensely, jarringly theirs. "Can we, uh... do you mind if we..." They make a kind of rotational gesture with their hands. "...Can I lay down for this, actually?"

Crowley's not entirely sure if time actually stops then or if it just feels like it does. Angel melts into human, fiction cracks and breaks to leave reality in its wake, and his sheer stupidity and longing rushes back to him like a devastating punch to the gut.

"Mnn- ngk- uh-" he chokes out, blinking up at them. "Y-yeah, fine."

The two of them shift positions; Ash lays back, while Crowley kneels between their legs. He doesn't make a further move beyond that. He can't bring himself to, not anymore. Not with the truth pestering him like it is now.

It's not _really_ **him**, it's obvious, it's been obvious all along.

Yes, he knows, but could he just-

No amount of playing pretend is going to actually give him a chance of sleeping with the angel, or even get them anything further than what they already have together.

Yeah, but this is just to get rid of the hard-on he's got, so could he get on with-

And wouldn't **he** think it weird? Isn't it a little weird? The whole thing Crowley's been doing this whole time? And what if **he's** not even interested in the idea of sex, even if doing the deed didn't risk the safety of both of them, even if he had the courage to actually propose the idea - that'd _definitely_ make it extra weird. Just because he's kind of fond of _making an effort_ doesn't mean **he'll** be.

"Gahh..." he growls, burying his face in his hands. "Fucking- ugh..."

"Anthony?" Ash pipes up, concerned. "Are... you okay there?"

Crowley's gaze snaps to them momentarily, and he almost makes a snappy comment, but leaves the wrath turned where it _should_ be - inward, at himself.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm... I can't do this shit right now." he says with a sigh.

"Oh. Okay, uh... Is everything alright? I didn't, uh, did I do something-"

"No, nah, don't worry," he interrupts. "I'm just... really, really fucking stupid."

Ash sits up. "Anything I can help with?"

A gentle, supportive hand lands on Crowley's shoulder, and it's soft, but so distinctly _not_ the soft, manicured hands he really wants touching him, and it feels wrong in the strangest way - but, importantly, it's not Ash's fault.

"I, uh..." Another sigh. "I need you to leave, I think."

They're a little surprised for a moment, but they nod nonetheless and move to gather up their clothes. Soon enough, they're gone, without another word spoken between the two. Ash seems to have guessed Crowley's not in the mood for further conversation.

Which leaves the demon alone in his bed. Like he should be, right?

He resolves to just masturbate the next time he gets horny and leave it at that.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah UmU all this was probably a mistake  
[hmu on tumblr](https://lollyholly99.tumblr.com/)  
I'm lonely come talk to me abt our favourite angel/demon duo being soft instead of angsty or smth <3


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